For a brief period in 2009 -10, I thought I had invented the word “chillax”. That period also coincided with a bout of exquisite self-hate, then I realized that some other mofo had invented that word.
May God bring peace to the soul that carries that burden.
MOODS – As I sit down to write about this topic, I notice that nothing significant comes up, and I find myself helpless in the expectation that something ought to flow on its own, but all rivers have dried/frozen for the moment.
Now, it could be that I know too little to come up with anything or it is the ironic alternative that I am not in the right mood for it.
Yet, I notice that, not being in the right mood didn’t stop me from writing – for the pen was still in my hand and the paper still lied before me. My mood only made me want to stop – it felt like something weak, that lacked the force to throw me off a cliff and instead wanted me to do its work and throw myself off. This inner relationship (between me and my moods)felt much like “a gullible person believing the constant stream of bad advice whispered in their ear.” I say gullible because, whether I liked it or not, I wasn’t paying attention to the distorted logic of my moods. For when I sat down to consider it, where did the expectation that something had to flow on its own even come from? Where do we writers even get that in our heads?
Once I made it this far, I wondered , “How come I ever allowed my moods to stop me from doing anything?”
It immediately struck me that a lifetime of saying yes to both good and bad moods was behind my present suffering, and it is suffering isn’t it? – because when things don’t flow on their own, we are bound to curse, belittle and doubt ourselves.
I can hear the Buddha saying, “I told you so.” and rolling his eyes at me.
Our moods whisper in many ways – when they are being accommodating of us and our present goal, it is like being held by a kind radiating smile – and words flow, oh they do; when they aren’t, it’s like being forced to look at something upsetting.
While we are being pushed and jerked around by our moods, we forget their existence is essentially temporary and fickle.
By the end of this post I was unconcerned with whether I was in the mood to write or not, whether it would turn out fantastic or horrible, and it seems that this unconcern is what let me write, when I could have easily listened to the careless whispers.
I leave you with this, a cinematic take (based on neuroscientist David Eagleman’s book “Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives“) on how we spend our lives, a clever thought experiment – what if in the afterlife all the moments that share a quality were grouped together and you lived those moments grouped as one, one by one.
How do you think your life would match against this?